Stepping

I’m thinking of that first 

night we stayed in your bed 

until two am

and you walked me to my 

car and I tripped going down the

front steps to the driveway,

the stairs uneven and my gait 

unsteady. You were two steps 

behind – a kind

figure following me down,

listening to me chatter on,

watching me stumble in the dark,

asking if I was ok.

I’m thinking of that now,

somehow chattering 

away at you still.

Do you think less of me

if I tell you: I imagine you

still close behind, a gentle

shadow in the 

unseeable landscape,

watching and listening

as I take another wobbly step

down - away from that night,

away from your bed

and your late night kindnesses,

and into my own 

unfamiliar and necessary deep?